Page 49 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

“You were holding a banjo.”

“I was trying it.”

“You played one note.”

“It was a very good note.”

“It also wasn’t your banjo.”

“Its owner let me borrow it when I asked.”

I laughed hard enough that I had to put the phone down for a moment. It was an impressive achievement, even by Dad’s standards: he'd managed to complain about a festival, challenge a dance instructor, and end up holding a banjo, all without apparently noticing that he was the common denominator in every problem.

“Anyway,” Dad continued, clearly determined not to let Mom have the last word, “the point is that your mother booked us into a campground where nobody could get any peace, and then she insisted on joining the line-dancing class and making us listen to bluegrass. I'm merely trying to make sure you have a balanced account of events.”

“By admitting that you tried to play a banjo and got the choreography wrong?”

“I never said I got the choreography wrong.”

“You turned the wrong way, Dad.”

“Your mother is an unreliable witness.”

“I'm your wife,” Mom said. “I've had years of practice of observation”

That set me off again. I was still laughing when Dad finally handed the phone back to her, presumably satisfied that he'd done enough to protect his reputation, or at least muddy the evidence.

“Your father says he’s never going line dancing again,” Mom told me. “Until the next time someone tells him he can’t, is what I reckon is more likely.”

“Probably.” I wiped at my eyes, still smiling. “Please tell me this is the end of the story.”

“Oh, no, darling. I haven't even got to the metal detector yet.”

My smile faltered. “There's more?”

“I thought you might like to see what your father has been up to.”

My phone chimed as she sent me some photographs. The first showed Dad standing beside a picnic table, holding up a rusty spoon as though he’d just unearthed a priceless archaeological artifact. His metal detector was tucked under one arm, and his expression suggested that he expected a documentary crew to arrive at any moment.

I enlarged the picture. “Is that a spoon? A rusty spoon?”

“Yes, darling. Your powers of observation are as impressive as ever.”

“Did he actually dig that up?”

“Your father says he discovered it.”

“That wasn't my question.”

“He was very excited about it.”

I moved to the second photograph. Dad was standing beside a uniformed police officer. The officer looked patient in the way of someone who’d already heard the entire story and was now waiting for an opportunity to escape. Dad, on the other hand, looked delighted, as if he'd made a new friend or been given an award.

“Why is Dad posing with a police officer?”

“Oh, that was after the spoon incident.”

“The spoon incident?”